


Smoke And Bubble

by Meowbowwow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ficlet, Fluff, John's POV, M/M, No Angst, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach, some surreal writing, the reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 00:50:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meowbowwow/pseuds/Meowbowwow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small piece on John and Sherlock's reunion. John's point of view. No angst, just a little surreal creative writing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke And Bubble

He stood near the window, violin in his hands, his chin scarred a little. How long had he been standing like that? I knew not, he didn’t even play anything, just stood there hanging between the present and the past, dreamlike and pale, the light from the street resting on one side of his face, avoiding the other. It almost looked like he was praying, like his fingers had forgotten to play the strings, all his composure seemed balanced on the taut bow his fingers bled onto.

Yes, his fingers were bleeding. It was baffling, simply because they shouldn’t have. The skin wasn’t sensitive to the strings, they’d known each other for ages, they were callused and worn out from years of playing. Could three years wither away their acquaintance like that? What would those three years have done to his mind, I wondered. That brilliant, beautiful mind, protected by nothing and everything- a body of its own comprising of pink hands and feet of a child’s but scarred palms and soles of a warrior, of a soldier.

I could feel his shoulders ache under the breathless pull between us, feel his spine creak on the inside as it shivered under my viridian gaze. I saw the shadow of his lips open and nothing came out. His silent words travelled through the walls, snaking along the pipes, rustling on the base of my own throat. I could taste them in my mouth -  _copper, iron, formaldehyde, D Major_ , my mind kept reciting them, counting them off its abacus.

I closed my eyes, my head hurt; I tried to seek solace in the blackness behind my own lids. Instead, I saw him. Bending over old yellowing books, books with pages as ancient as his grey eyes, peering not reading, and then throwing his head back with grace, praying again. His nose buried deep within their spines, smelling. He looked like a man intoxicated, his lips open, heady with a pleasure he had created. He spoke softly to the pages, touched some, revelling in their rustling; I could hear quills scratching everywhere as he continued whispering to them breathlessly, not opening his eyes even for a second, sighing like a writer breathing words into a page. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see words appear like magic, suspended over his head and dropping one by one onto the page with a resounding crash; getting absorbed without a sign like rains on parched Indian fields in the month of May.

I opened my eyes and his words continued to tug at my Adam’s apple as he shifted his body and opened his eyes. Our eyes met, there was no anger in mine, no apology in his. I walked up to him, my feet as light as air and as heavy as lead, moving slowly as if savouring the distance. I walked like I was encased in a bubble and he was smoke. I leaned behind him, touching the familiar back and pressing it against my chest, he still smelled the same, he still felt like himself. His shoulders relaxed, he leaned towards the touch, hungry; my breath got caught in his wild hair as he turned around. Our bubble quivered under our aching gaze, the air we breathed was nothing but a dirge.

“I am back, John,” he said, not bursting the bubble but gliding into it, a delicate smoke sphere inside transparent encasement, shimmering with the colours, dark against light, warm against cold, death against life. He turned around and his eyes were still the steel grey I had missed, not the grey of sorrow but the grey of strength.

“I am back,” he whispered again, pulling me closer, his lips barely touching my forehead, body shaking.  
  
“I know,” I kissed the hollow of his throat, shattering the bubble and breaking down in his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you found any typos or errors and I'll fix them.  
> xoxo  
> Meow


End file.
